


The Truth at Seventeen

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-21
Updated: 2006-08-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam doesn't quite get what he wants for his seventeenth birthday. If you're keeping score at home, this happens a few days after "The Party of Almost Was."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** The Truth at Seventeen  
**Author:** merepersiflage  
**Pairings:** Sam/Dean   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Category:** slash  
**Word Count:** 2300  
**Spoilers:** preseries   
**Summary:** Sam doesn’t quite get what he wants for his seventeenth birthday  
**Warnings:** incest, graphic sex, language—If 17 is underage and squicky for you, skip on by.   
**Disclaimer:** Don’t we all _wish_?  
**Notes:** If you’re keeping score at home, this happens a few days after [The Party of Almost Was](http://merepersiflage.livejournal.com/7564.html) The title is shamelessly stolen from Janis Ian’s marvelous lyrics.   
  
  
  
  
  
**The Truth at Seventeen**  
by merepersiflage  
  
  
Sam slapped the snooze button before Dean could start bitching then flopped back onto the bed. It was Tuesday, May second. His seventeenth birthday. So maybe seventeen was a little old to be getting excited about birthdays, but seventeen really sounded older than sixteen, definitely important. Like have his own car, be a grown up, get a real job, not take orders from Dad anymore important. But the reality was—he rolled over and smacked the clock again—it was just another Tuesday in May, but at least family tradition meant he got to pick the take out menu for dinner.   
  
He shut off the alarm and rolled into the shower. When he came back to get dressed, Dean opened his eyes.   
  
“Happy birthday, Sammy. Need a ride?”  
  
“No, Dad’s up.”  
  
Dean made a harsh sound. “I don’t think he ever went to bed. He didn’t get in until three.”  
  
Of course, Dean was so bleary looking because he’d been waiting up for him. Sam tugged a shirt over his head and looked back at Dean who was yawning.   
  
“I’ll pick you up though, Sammy,” he said through a bigger yawn.   
  
“Okay.”  
  
 

* * *

  
  
Sam thought about Dean’s promise all day. He should know better than to hope, especially after the disaster at Heather’s party, but he couldn’t help thinking that Dean would have something special planned for him. He always did something for Sam’s birthday but this year . . . this year Sam was kind of hoping he had something _different_ special in mind.   
  
The clock freaking froze during eighth period. Sam stared at it intently, wondering if the minute hand would get moving if he threw a knife at it. When the bell finally rang, he had to force himself not to trample his classmates as he sprinted for the door, forced himself to slow to a walk as he spotted the gleaming black car. The windows were down and Black Sabbath was pouring out. Dean’s arm hung over the window, tapping lightly on the door.   
  
“Get any birthday presents from your little school friends, Sammy?” Dean turned the music back a little as Sam folded himself in next to him.   
  
“No.”   
  
“Not even sweet little Heather?”   
  
Sam wished Dean would turn the music up again, even though Ozzie gave him a goddamned headache.   
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Must not have been a very good kiss. Didn’t look that bad from where I was standing.”  
  
Sam had had enough. “Maybe I just had a lousy teacher.”  
  
Dean’s lips twisted as he acknowledged Sam’s hit. “So kissless, what lame dinner are you going to subject us to tonight?”  
  
Sam realized Dean was taking a direct route home. No detours. Straight back to the trailer and Dad. He narrowed his eyes. “Chinese.”   
  
Dean groaned.   
  
 

* * *

  
  
The spices on the chicken burned into his sinuses, and Sam shoveled in another mouthful, feeling a bit of remorse as he watched Dean squirt ketchup on his plain rice. It wouldn’t have killed him to order pizza.   
  
Dad didn’t seem to notice what he was eating as he speared another pea pod and brought it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving the newspaper he was scanning. Sammy could have insisted on sushi and Dad probably wouldn’t have cared.   
  
The lines around Dad’s mouth always seemed a little deeper on Sam’s birthday. Dean told him Dad looked like that at Christmas and other holidays too, said it was because Dad missed Mom more then, but Sam still thought there was a different kind of tension, a different kind of Dad not really being there with them on _his_ birthday. He looked over to see Dean make a face as he lifted a pink, mushy forkful to his mouth.   
  
He looked back down at his chicken. And he wasn’t that hungry any more.   
  
“Done?” Dean asked. “ ’Cause I got you an ice cream cake.”  
  
He really should have asked for pizza.   
  
Dad looked up when Dean put the cake on the table. “Happy birthday, Sammy.” He put two paper wrapped packages on the table.   
  
Sam reached for the bigger of the two packages first. Heavy, thick. A book. He peeled back enough paper to see the spine. Latin demonology. At least it would be good practice for the verbal on his SAT’s.   
  
“Thanks, Dad.”  
  
“Caleb found it for me.”  
  
_Gee, thanks, Caleb._ His slice of ice cream cake puddled on the paper plate in front of him as he pulled the smaller package toward him. This one was small and light. He ripped it open. A wallet, a brown leather bifold, like Dad’s. Like Dean’s.   
  
“Open it,” Dad said.   
  
Sam looked inside and found his picture on a Kansas driver’s license, identifying him as Samuel Wojinski, aged 22. On the other side, was a Master Card in the same name.   
  
“Dad—”  
  
“I’ve got one thing to say. We’re staying here until your school year’s over and I don’t want any trouble in town. You don’t use it around here. And the credit card is just for emergencies.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“I mean it.” Dad glanced over at Dean. “I know you boys would probably like to go out for Sam’s birthday tonight, but not tonight. Not in town.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” They said together.  
  
“Uh here, Sammy.”  
  
Dean dropped something in his lap. Sam looked down. It was a leather book like Dad’s, but with a calendar in it and a separate section for notes.   
  
“I figured you could put your assignments for school and everything in it.”  
  
The leather cover was even softer than the wallet, a rich brown like Dean’s jacket. He just resisted bringing it to his nose to see if it smelled like Dean.   
  
“Thanks.” He ran his hand over it, his fingers tingling with the memory of rubbing Dean’s jacket when they kissed.   
  
“Yeah, cake’s melting.”  
  
Sam scooped some up. He really only liked the black crunchy bits in the middle anyway.   
  
 

* * *

  
  
It was ten freaking thirty and Dean was still sitting in the living room watching _Apocalypse Now_ with Dad. Sam finally got up off his bed and made as much noise as he could in the bathroom, periodically padding into the hall to see if he could catch Dean’s eye, but his brother was still staring at the tv.   
  
Dean hadn’t touched him, not even a smack on his head or a bump of his shoulder since Heather’s party four days ago. _Something_ had happened, Sam just knew it, and wished he hadn’t been so drunk so he could remember. It was just a blur of fighting and feeling like shit and then kissing, and he hoped to god he hadn’t cried because that was just too embarrassing.   
  
It was one thing that Dean had mostly left him alone on Saturday. He was so hungover he’d thought he might die, but Sunday, and then Monday, with Dad gone? Nothing. When he reached across the narrow space between their beds, Dean was rolled tightly in his sheets out of reach.   
  
But today . . . it was his goddamn _birthday_. The least Dean could do was to—finally Dean stood, talking to Dad and Sam rinsed his mouth and ran back to their room.   
  
He landed on his bed and waited, listening to Dean brushing his teeth.   
  
When Dean came in, he paused at the door, “Going to sleep?”  
  
Sam raised himself up on his elbows. “Dean. It’s my birthday.”  
  
“At least for another hour or so.”  
  
Sam was horny and frustrated and more than anything he needed to know that everything was all right between them, but Dean just stood there at the door with his hand on the light switch. “Dean,” he said again looking up at him.  
  
“Fuck.” But it was only a whisper. Dean shut the door and flicked the switch.   
  
Sam felt Dean’s weight come down on his bed. He sat up and pulled off his shirt.   
  
“Dad’s still awake, Sammy.”   
  
“So be quiet.”  
  
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”  
  
“I’ll be quiet I promise, c’mon, Dean.” He reached for the hem of Dean’s shirt, rubbed a hand underneath.   
  
“You never are.” But Dean let him pull his shirt off.   
  
Sam could feel some of that terrible tension in his stomach ease as Dean leaned forward and ran his own hand over Sam’s belly. “There’s only a half hour left of that movie. Dad’ll be in bed.”  
  
Sam’d been hard as hell since Dean sat on his bed. A half an hour seemed like a year. “I can’t wait.”  
  
“Sam . . .” Dean’s hand slid lower. “Not a fuckin’ sound.” He leaned in and kissed him, toothpaste taste, wet lips soft and stubbled cheek rough. Sam opened his mouth and kissed him back, squirming toward Dean’s hand until his brother shoved the heel of his hand low against his dick.   
  
Dean lifted his head. “Think you can keep your mouth shut if I blow you?”   
  
Sam had to clench his teeth to keep back the moan as just the thought made his cock jump against Dean’s hand. He nodded. Dean looked at him as if he didn’t believe him.   
  
Dean pushed his shoulders until they hit the back of the bed. “Here.” He grabbed Sam’s t-shirt and shoved it at his face.  
  
“I don’t need . . .”  
  
Dean’s hand undid his fly. Sam’s mouth dropped open and then he shut it again.   
  
“You want this?”   
  
Sam nodded. He wanted it. God, he wanted it so much his legs were shaking. He hadn’t come for four days.   
  
“Open your mouth.”   
  
Sam wet his lips and opened his mouth, and Dean stuffed the cotton between his teeth. It pressed down on his tongue, almost gagging him but Dean kept shoving it forward. His mouth went dry right away. He reached up to jerk the shirt away, and Dean knocked his hand down. “I swear I’ll go right back out and watch tv.”  
  
Sam dropped back and tried to swallow around the gag. It got a lot easier to ignore when Dean slid between his legs and pulled his jeans down. He panted through his nose when Dean breathed on the damp head of his cock. Dean looked up with a last warning before he bent to wrap his lips around him.   
  
His tongue worked at the cotton in his mouth as Dean’s circled the head of his dick. So wet and hot and then he was sliding along the soft parts of Dean’s mouth and he might never be able to breathe again but he didn’t care as long as Dean’s mouth never stopped taking him in. Dean took him all the way to his throat, slid back off then went back down hard suck and swirling tongue. Sam’s hips flew off the bed and he was glad Dean had gagged him because he’d never ever have been able to stifle the whimper when Dean’s fingers tugged at his balls and worked lower, rubbing and pressing and Sam bucked harder.  
  
Dean’s other hand was hard on his shaft, twisting in time with the deep pull of his mouth. He would have sold his fucking soul to stay right there, that razor sharp edge of coming, and he fought it another second, before bursting over so hard and hot it hurt. The moans trapped in his chest tore at his throat and left him feeling sore and raspy.   
  
Dean kept him in his mouth until he was soft and then dropped his head on the edge of the bed. Sam pulled himself up.   
  
He jerked the gag free. “Lemme . . .” His voice was hoarse.   
  
“Your birthday, Sammy. I got it.”   
  
He could hear Dean now over the rush of blood in his ears, hear the quick slide of his hand on his dick, the breath whistling through his teeth. Sam leaned over and turned the radio on, Dean’s classic rock station playing softly to mask the sounds of flesh rubbing hard.   
  
“I want to.”   
  
“Just . . .”   
  
Even in the dark he could see how close Dean was, watch it start to break over his face. Lashes fluttering, lips open, jaw tightening. Sam licked his lips, fully intending to slide off and finish him in his mouth when Dean pitched forward. His mouth latched onto the inside of his thigh and _that_ was a fucking painful place for a hickey. He could feel Dean’s shoulders jerk, knew he was coming, so he bit his lip and stayed quiet.   
  
“Jesus, Sammy. I didn’t mean to do that.” He kissed the sore spot.   
  
“It’s all right.”   
  
“You should have kicked me across the room.”  
  
“Yeah, I think Dad would have heard that.”  
  
Dean jumped away just as Sam heard their father’s footstep in the hall.   
  
Sam felt that wave of resentment he always got when everything got ruined. They couldn’t just curl up together in bed until they were ready to do it again, he couldn’t just reach out and touch Dean whenever he wanted. They had to be so fucking careful all the time.   
  
Dean was already on his bed, jeans unbuttoned, dick tucked back inside his shorts. He watched Sam, but didn’t say anything. Sam stared and heard Dean in his head _There are things we can’t have. Things I can’t give you._ When had he said that? Was that what they had fought about at Heather’s party?  
  
The narrow space between their beds was suddenly too wide.   
  
He crawled over.   
  
“Sam. Dad’s in the bathroom. Right next door.” Dean’s whisper was so low it was almost inaudible.  
  
The resentment grew until it choked him like his t-shirt had. _What is it we’re doing? Do you even like it? Like me?_   
  
“Dean.”   
  
Dean reached out and rubbed the back of his head, fingers sifting through his hair.   
  
“Go back to bed, Sammy. Happy birthday.”  
  
Sam dug his fingers into the bedspread, twisting them as he swallowed something bitter at the back of his throat.   
  
Dean’s fingers stilled for a second and then his hand drifted down his back once, twice and then he pushed him gently. “Go on. See you in the morning.”


End file.
